


the angel sent from brimfield oil & service

by owlinaminor



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Female Combeferre, Female Courfeyrac, M/M, Mechanic Combeferre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Courfeyrac's car breaks down on the side of the highway while she's driving to the airport and Combeferre is her angel in an old tow-truck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the angel sent from brimfield oil & service

**Author's Note:**

> based on a true story. or, well, my dad and I were driving to the airport, my car broke down, and then I sat in the car next to him for an hour and a half while he yelled at insurance people. I decided the best thing to do was make the situation into courferre fic, so here we are. probably going to be multi-chapter, because why not. the towns and colleges I mention are real, the specific places most likely aren’t. also, thanks go to [renn](http://courfeyrac.tk/) for reading through and checking for typos!

 

To be honest, Courfeyrac blames Grantaire.

“You can take my car to the airport,” Grantaire had said.  “I know it’s old, and it’s a bit banged up from years of, well, being my car, but it’s good,” Grantaire had said. “And it’s not like I’m going to be using it, what with the whole going to Connecticut with Enjolras thing,” Grantaire had said.  “You’ll be _fine_ ,” Grantaire had said.

And Courfeyrac had believed him, like the over-trusting idiot that she is.  She really shouldn’t have trusted Grantaire’s car – twenty-five years old, radio barely working, one of the taillights covered with plastic wrap and duct tape – to safely take her anywhere, but for some incredibly stupid reason, she had, and now she’s stuck on the side of the highway an hour’s drive from the airport.

“Goddamnit,” Courfeyrac swears quietly.  She drops her head, banging her forehead against the steering wheel.  The horn honks loudly, causing a couple of passing cars to swerve in panic, so she picks her head up and rests it in her hands, instead.

Courfeyrac has never had a broken car to deal with before.  She mostly got rides from her friends and brothers until she went to college, and only got her license then after pressure from Enjolras – “You need to fully take advantage of the freedom this country has granted you!”, or whatever.  She’s never actually owned her own car, much less had to deal with fixing one.

Courfeyrac swears a little bit more, then digs into her coat pocket and takes out her phone.

Grantaire picks up on the fifth ring.  “Courf, is this really important?  Enjolras and I are kind-of in the middle of something right –”

“Yes, it’s fucking important!” Courfeyrac shouts.  She sounds kind-of like a petulant teenager getting angry at her parents for no good reason, but she can’t particularly bring herself to care.  “Your car just _stopped_ on me!  For no good reason!  And I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t ... Oh, wow.”  Grantaire bursts out laughing, which Courfeyrac really doesn’t appreciate.  “That sucks, dude.  I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, _sorry_ doesn’t help me get to the airport in time to not miss my flight!” Courfeyrac exclaims.

“You might have to give up on that, Courf,” Grantaire says.  “Even if you manage to get a taxi to the airport, who’s gonna take the car back to campus?  You need a tow truck or something.”

“Argh.”  Courfeyrac goes to bang her head against the wheel again, then remembers the horn and bangs it against the dashboard instead.  “But I really wanted to see everyone,” she whines.

Grantaire sighs.  “Okay, well, before you start getting all emotional, can you check a couple of things?”

“Okay, um, sure.  Like, which things?”

“Well, first of all –” And it’s easy to tell Grantaire is suppressing a laugh. “– is there gas in the tank?”

Courfeyrac glares at her windshield, hoping her friend gets the sentiment.  “Yes, there’s gas in the tank, asshole.”

“Did you get a flat tire or something, then?”

At least this question is more reasonable.  “One sec,” Courfeyrac says.  She waits for a break in the traffic (which is both challenging and stressful, since apparently it’s taboo to not drive at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit) then opens her door and steps out, the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.  The wind billows around her like some kind of vengeful spirit determined to knock her off balance, whipping her hair around her face and making it impossible to see.  She pulls it into a haphazard bun before stomping around the car to examine all four wheels.

“R?  You still there?” she asks.

“Regrettably, yes,” Grantaire replies.  “So, any flat tires?”

“Nope.  They’re all good.”

“Huh.”  Grantaire says something else, harder to catch – probably talking to Enjolras – then asks, “Can you open up the hood and tell me if anything looks funny?”

“Dude, I’ve literally never owned my own car,” Courfeyrac tells him, even as she makes her way to the front of the car and examines the latch.

“Yeah, but you can still try.”

“Alright, just tell me how the hell I’m supposed to open this thing.”  Courfeyrac kicks the front of the car in question, hoping that’ll have some effect.  (It doesn’t.)

“It’s not hard,” Grantaire says, sounding amused.  “Just push down a bit, then lift.”

Courfeyrac struggles for a few seconds, then glares at the car hood, then calls its mother a moldy excuse for a fucking slime-bug (however much sense that makes), then tries again.  This time, the hood actually lifts up – then almost drops back down when Courfeyrac pauses to do a triumphant fist-pump.

She peers into the inside of the car, not really sure what she’s supposed to be looking for.  There are wires, metal things, pump things, more metal things, wheel things ... It looks like a steampunk costume party threw up in here, but that doesn’t really help her at all.

“Well?” Grantaire finally asks.

“It seems to be powered by some sort of electricity!” Courfeyrac says, attempting to channel her inner all-American dorito.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Grantaire replies.  And then, “Okay, but seriously, you don’t see any problems?”

“I have no idea!  It’s just broken!”  Honestly, nobody should expect Courfeyrac to know anything about technology ever.  She once thought her computer was broken just because a Windows update was installing.

“Okay, calm down,” Grantaire says.  “Just ... Get back in the car, try starting it again.”

Courfeyrac does as suggested – gets back in, sticks her keys in the ignition, prays to every god she can think of, and ... turns.  The engine sputters for a moment, but quickly peters out, like a high school senior the last few weeks of school.

“God _damn_ it!” Courfeyrac curses.

“No luck?” Grantaire asks.

Courfeyrac sighs.  “Yup.  I’m so screwed.  No flight for me.  Mom’s literally going to skin me and turn that skin into a canoe.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Grantaire says.  He actually sounds pretty sympathetic this time.

“And I have no way to get back to campus, either,” Courfeyrac goes on.  “Since there are no taxis running near here, and you don’t have car insurance, and I’m not going to walk so don’t ask –”

She hears a noise from the other end that sounds vaguely like Enjolras making a suggestion, and then Grantaire says, “Enjolras actually knows someone who lives in the area and has a tow truck.”

... Alright, so maybe all that praying wasn’t totally wasted after all.

Courfeyrac whispers a quick _thank you_ before asking, “Can I talk to him?”

There’s a moment of static, and then she hears, “Hey, Courf.  Sorry about the car.  You really shouldn’t have trusted Grantaire.”

She lets out an unimpressed snort.  “Right, like you wouldn’t’ve done the same thing, once he, like, bribed you with blowjobs or whatever.”

Enjolras makes a shocked noise – he’s probably going red – and she smirks.  “Anyway, so, your friend?”

“Yeah, um, my friend,” Enjolras says, clearly glad to change the subject.  “Her name’s Combeferre, and her dad’s a mechanic, so they have a pickup truck.  She goes to MIT, but she’s home for the holidays right now and I think she lives pretty close.”

“So is she an actual angel living on earth, or?” Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras laughs.  “She has worked miracles before, if you ask me.  Want me to give you her phone number?”

“Please.”

Enjolras does, then ends the call with a second apology for everything (even though it’s his boyfriend’s fault) and an instruction to text him once she gets back to campus.

Courfeyrac waits a few minutes, watching the cars on the highway zoom by and trying the engine just one more time, before dialing the number Enjolras gave her.

It rings a couple of times, the connection unstable and riddled with static.  Courfeyrac bounces up and down on her seat nervously until, on the fourth ring, someone answers.

“Hello?” says a voice – low, smooth, and slightly apathetic, like the class genius after some idiot begged her for answers to the homework.  “Who is this?”

“Um, I’m Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac replies.  “I’m a friend of Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s.  They told me that you could maybe help me out?”

“One sec.”  The line goes silent for a few seconds, and then picks up again – this time, with slightly less background noise.  “Alright,” Combeferre says.  “Do you need legal advice, a way to deal with drug withdrawal, bail money for prison, what?”

Wait ... what?  When Enjolras said his friend went to MIT, Courfeyrac didn’t realize that this girl apparently runs some kind of semi-legal service.

“Uh, actually, I need to be towed,” Courfeyrac explains.  “I borrowed Grantaire’s car to drive to the airport from campus – I go to Boston College, same as him – and it broke down about an hour from the airport, and –”

“And Grantaire doesn’t have car insurance, because he’s an idiot,” Combeferre finishes for her, sounding amused.  “Of course.  Sorry about what I said before – Enjolras sends the lower-income people he does charity work with to me when they need, well, any of the things I mentioned, so I kind-of assumed.”

“That’s fine,” Courfeyrac says.  “So, do you actually have a tow-truck, or did Enjolras just tell me that in some kind of cruel joke so that I wouldn’t think I’d have to sit here on the edge of the highway until the patriarchy crumbles?”

Combeferre laughs, at that.  She has a nice laugh – quiet, but pleased, as though it’s surprised at itself for coming out.  “No, you don’t have to do that, I can borrow my dad’s tow-truck for a couple of hours.  Actually,” she adds when Courfeyrac starts to thank her, “I can tow the car back to his shop and take a look at it, if you want.”

Courfeyrac makes a mental note to thank Enjolras for having such cool friends.  “That would be amazing,” she says.  “I’d owe you at least six hundred batches of cookies, since I’m kinda broke, but that would be amazing.”

“I wasn’t going to ask for payment, since it was for Enjolras,” Combeferre replies, “but six hundred batches of cookies sounds great.  Can you make chocolate chip?”

“I can, I think I’ll mix it up a little, actually.  Surprise you.”

“I’m looking forward to it.  Anyway, um – where are you, exactly?  I don’t have psychic powers, you need to actually make word sounds with your talking organ to give me your location.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”  Courfeyrac feels slightly stupid for not thinking to figure out where she was, exactly, sooner.  She opens her door slightly and sticks her head out, looking around for signs, then says, “Well, I’m on I-90 West, between exits eight and nine, I think.  My car’s – or, well, Grantaire’s car’s – right next to this sign that says Palmer.  Does that help at all?”

“Yeah, I think I can find you.”

Courfeyrac does a little happy dance in her seat, complete with fist-pumping and humming Stayin’ Alive.  She might have missed her flight, and her mom might actually kill her, but at least she’s not stranded!  Life is okay!

She’s so happy not to be stuck that she almost misses Combeferre asking, “Hey, what’s your name, friend of Enjolras’ who stupidly borrowed Grantaire’s car?”

“I’m Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac answers.

“And I’m Combeferre,” Combeferre says.  “Do you think Enjolras purposely makes friends with people with obscure French names, or is it just a coincidence?”

“I think we can talk about it once you come and pick me up!” Courfeyrac exclaims.  “There’s no heat in this lump of trash broken-down car.”

Combeferre laughs again, and Courfeyrac grins.  She likes that laugh.

“Okay, stay put,” Combeferre says.  “Don’t run off into the woods or anything.  I’ll be there in half an hour, max.”

She ends the call, leaving Courfeyrac staring at her phone with approximately half an hour to kill.  She ends up spending it rifling through the car, looking for blackmail material on Grantaire (for the most part, his car is surprisingly clean, although she does find several nonmatching gloves, a couple of unlabeled bottles that are probably alcohol, and a One Direction CD), writing a journal entry on a scrap of paper about the experience (which, halfway through, turns into a list of bad names to call Grantaire), and running outside to pee in the woods (horrible, atrocious, miserable, never to be spoken of again.)

Courfeyrac is poking the glove compartment, making it open and close, open and close, when she spots the tow-truck in the rear view mirror.

_Yes!  Salvation is at hand!_

She steps out and practically runs to the truck, paying little attention to the traffic going by.  Courfeyrac isn’t sure what tow-trucks are supposed to look like, but this one seems sturdy enough.  It has a truck part, and a towing part, and a lot of wires and stuff that are probably in the places they should be.

And then, a girl steps out of the truck.  She’s tall and lean, like a gymnast or a ballet dancer, with dark skin and short hair, an undercut that Courfeyrac kind-of really wants to run her fingers through, push back or to the side or just feel.  And her eyes are hidden behind the dorkiest glasses Courfeyrac has ever seen but still somehow manage to be so _bright_ , and the tiny, friendly smile she gives Courfeyrac is just _beautiful_ , and –

Holy shit.  This girl is hot.

 


End file.
